


The Spy Who Came to Christmas

by Sholio



Category: Mrs. Pollifax - Dorothy Gilman
Genre: Christmas, Fluff, Friendship, Gen, Holidays, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-02
Updated: 2016-11-02
Packaged: 2018-08-28 17:46:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,206
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8455912
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sholio/pseuds/Sholio
Summary: Mrs. Pollifax anticipates a quiet holiday with her daughter Jane's family, but instead there's spy trouble afoot.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Margo_Kim](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Margo_Kim/gifts).



> A treat written for your absolutely _marvelous_ prompt about Farrell showing up at Mrs. Pollifax's for Christmas. _The stranger munching on gingerbread in the family room is doing nothing to assuage Mrs. Pollifax’s daughter that her mother is behaving responsibly in her old age._ Hee!

Christmas was at Jane's in Arizona, as usual. In the early years after her children moved away, especially while Virgil was still alive, Mrs. Pollifax had made an effort to have both of them back to New Jersey each year for the holidays, and after they began to settle into their own lives, she'd made an equivalent effort to rotate the holiday fairly between them. But somehow it always seemed to go to Jane more often than not -- "Roger and Beth have that appalling tiny apartment, Mother, there's simply nowhere to stay -- and the weather is so much nicer in Arizona, you can't be expected to cope with Chicago winters at your age, especially with all those _stairs_ \--"

 _This_ Christmas, with a renewed sense of purpose, Mrs. Pollifax was determined to spend Christmas in Chicago -- had it been three years ago when she'd last spent the holidays at Roger's, or four? But Roger laughed off her concerns. "Mother, of course we'd love to see you, but we already have plans. Beth's uncle bought us a holiday at a Colorado ski lodge, isn't that grand? I'm already waxing my skis. Have a great time in Arizona."

So Christmas was at Jane and Conrad's. They had a small square house on a street lined with small square houses, each with a small tree in the yard and a lawn that must require a great deal of water to maintain. As usual, little Dora was moved out of her room into her parents' bedroom, so that Mrs. Pollifax (despite all her protests that she'd be quite comfortable on the couch) could squeeze herself into a bed that was just a few awkward inches too short, and attempt to sleep while being stared at by a shelf full of stuffed animals and dolls. "I shouldn't wonder if they give the poor child nightmares," she thought on more than one occasion. "I'm sure they would have done it for me, when I was her age."

But this Christmas, she was intrigued to realize that the dolls bothered her not at all. A shelf full of toys could lose its ability to intimidate after one had faced down Albanian gunmen, after all. She had, as usual, forgotten how much noise bothered Conrad, especially the noise of children playing and especially after dinner, but she did greatly enjoy baking cookies with Jane in the kitchen, and helping the children in their enthusiastic decorating efforts (quietly cleaning up tinsel behind them so their mother wouldn't fuss).

On Christmas Eve, the house smelled of cinnamon, Bing Crosby crooned softly from the record player, and the children in their pajamas were working with their mother to construct a gingerbread house when the telephone rang.

"Who's calling at this hour, and on Christmas Eve too? I'll have a word ..." Conrad grumbled. It was plain, however, that he wasn't going to have any kind of word with the caller, since he was waiting for Jane to answer it, and she couldn't extricate herself from the sticky children, at least not without compromising the structural integrity of a gingerbread house that was already listing perilously to starboard. In years past, Mrs. Pollifax would have been on her feet already to hurry and help. This time, she remained in her chair with her cup of tea, smiling serenely at the children, until it became obvious that the caller simply was _not_ going to cease their efforts -- the ringing went on and on -- and Conrad was growing redder and redder, but still showed no particular inclination to put his single allotted glass of brandy aside and clamber to his feet.

"Mother, would you please --" Jane said impatiently. "No, Dora, not the large one -- it'll unbalance the line of the roof entirely. You want the _small_ gumdrops for that --"

In the interests of domestic harmony, Mrs. Pollifax put her tea aside and went into the hall to the phone. "Hello, Kempf residence."

There was a silence on the other end of the line, but a waiting silence crackling with static -- the person hadn't hung up. She'd just opened her mouth to give them a piece of _her_ mind (she was beginning to share Conrad's opinions of rude late-night callers) when there was a startled-sounding laugh and a voice said, "Well, this is a trifle awkward, but at least not as much as I was afraid it'd be. And Merry Christmas!"

"Carstairs!" she gasped, and then looked quickly over her shoulder to be sure she hadn't been overheard. Jane was far too busy with the children to notice anything going on in the hall, and Mrs. Pollifax was fairly sure that Conrad couldn't hear anything through his deteriorating case of selective deafness to anything that disturbed his routine. "But why are you calling me here?" she asked, dropping her voice. "Perhaps I should say, _how_ are you calling me here?" The apartment in New Jersey would have been less unexpected; at least she knew the CIA had the number.

"I wouldn't if I had another good option, I promise you. This concerns a certain mutual friend of ours with the initials JSF."

"Farrell," she breathed. "What is it? Is something wrong? Is he all right?" She hadn't seen him since they'd said their goodbyes, in their own way, after the Albania adventure. She had, in honesty, tried not to think about it; she knew how dangerous his job was. Finding Carstairs in the office this late on Christmas Eve wasn't terribly unusual -- or, no, much later, she mentally added; it would be two hours ahead on the East Coast. Still, it wasn't extraordinary ... but having him go to all the trouble to call her at her daughter's house spoke of desperate times indeed.

Carstairs didn't answer her question. "Can you free yourself from your family obligations for an hour or so?"

"An hour?" she repeated, with another glance down the hall to be sure that Jane was still occupied with the children. "I -- I suppose so ..." The thought slowly crept over her that whatever Carstairs wanted was bound to be infinitely more interesting than watching the children play with gingerbread, and she found herself beginning to grin. "I mean, _certainly,_ sir. I can be free for an hour or," she added recklessly, "as long as you like."

"Dear God, please don't sound so eager," Carstairs groaned. "Listen, I don't think discussing this over a domestic line is a good idea. Can you find a pay phone and call me as soon as you're able to gracefully extricate yourself? And, Mrs. Pollifax -- I am terribly sorry to interrupt your family Christmas."

Mrs. Pollifax was already reaching for her coat, her mind spinning. She was not at all sorry, especially if Farrell was involved. "Jane, I'm going out," she called down the hall.

"What, _now?"_ Jane asked blankly, while Conrad was stirred from his meticulous consideration of the stock reports in the paper. "Mother! It's Christmas Eve. Everything is closed!"

"I know, dear, it's only --" Her imagination faltered ... but only for a moment. "I promised my neighbor, Mrs. Hartshorne, that I'd photograph the holiday lights -- she's quite an avid traveler and photographer, I'm sure I've told you about her. I quite forgot until now, and I'm sure some of the best ones will be taken down after the holiday. I'd hate to disappoint her --"

"Yes, yes, if you must," Jane said with visible impatience at yet another of her mother's follies interrupting her neatly organized life. "Just _please_ don't go far, would you? Remember to look about you at all times, and don't forget your gloves --"

Mrs. Pollifax was halfway to the door before she realized she'd almost forgotten the most important thing, namely that she wasn't sure how far she'd have to go or whether the cabs would be running on Christmas Eve. "Jane dear, may I borrow the station wagon?"

"Oh -- oh, I suppose of course you must. The keys are on the hook in the hall. There's a full tank of gas, and Mother, _please_ be sure you don't get lost. Conrad and I had a terrible time when we first moved here. All the streets look so alike."

"I'll be careful," Mrs. Pollifax promised, and was out the door before Jane could say anything else. Gloves, indeed -- she hardly needed the coat. The desert night was cool but not cold, and the stars were very bright overhead, despite the nearby lights of the city. By the Kempfs' porch light, she adjusted the seats and mirrors in the station wagon, and pulled carefully out of the drive.

She remembered seeing a gas station up the road, and while it would surely be closed, she was hoping there would be a telephone booth available, and was pleased not to be disappointed. She fumbled in her purse for change and dialed Carstairs' direct line.

He answered on the first ring. "That was prompt. Thank you."

"All you had to do was say Farrell's name, you know. Is he well?" she asked anxiously.

"That's what I need you to determine for me. I'm going to give you an address. Do you have transportation?"

"Yes, but ... just a moment ..." Tucking the phone into the crook of her neck, she dug for a pencil. "But, I don't think I explained -- I'm not in New Jersey. I'm in Arizona."

"I know. Spending the holidays with your daughter's family," Carstairs said. Mrs. Pollifax decided to magnanimously overlook the fact that she'd never actually told him her holiday plans. "That's why I'm calling you. Right place, right time. You're the nearest person on the scene that I can contact. I have someone coming down from Albuquerque, but it'll be some hours, especially with everything closed up tight for the holiday, and the situation may be too urgent to wait."

"May be?" she repeated anxiously, tapping the pencil against her note pad. "Farrell is in trouble, isn't he? _How much_ trouble is he in?"

"I haven't a clue," Carstairs said, sounding irritable. "I didn't talk to him personally. He left a message with the desk, containing one of our distress codes. Now I can't get hold of him, but I do have the address of the motel where he's staying." Mrs. Pollifax's pencil tip quivered over the pad, but Carstairs hesitated. "Listen, not knowing what I'm sending you into -- I want to emphasize, I want you to _look,_ all right? I need eyes on the ground to tell me what exactly he's stumbled into. I don't actually think there is an immediate crisis -- at least, the assignment he was on shouldn't have precipitated a crisis -- but I want you to keep your doors locked and your windows rolled up, and if you have the slightest indication the situation isn't safe, drive straight out of there and call me."

"Of course," she said quickly, with no intention of doing so, at least not if Farrell appeared to be in jeopardy.

"That's an order, Mrs. Pollifax. I'd like to remind you that I can and _will_ refuse to give you any future assignments if you prove untrustworthy."

"I understand," she said meekly, "but surely if Farrell _is_ in some sort of trouble, the longer we delay, the worse his trouble is likely to become?"

"All right -- fine -- do you have a pen?"

She carefully copied down the address he gave her, a street address and the number seven, which she took to be a motel room or apartment number. She recognized the name of the town; they'd driven through it on an earlier trip. She remembered because there was a tourist attraction, a famous giant rocking chair, just a mile or so outside the town, and they'd stopped at the little downtown to buy ice cream for the children. "Why, that's only ten miles or so from here," she said, wonderingly.

"Now you see why I'm calling you," said Carstairs in his dry tones. "Remember, you're not to get involved if there's danger, understand? Not in the slightest. Call me instantly as soon as you have some understanding of what's going on."

"I will be very careful and very prompt," she promised him, and hung up the phone with her nerves jangling in the desert night. It was not fear so much as excitement. She got back in the car in such a hurry that she had to jump out again to retrieve her purse, which she'd nearly left in the phone booth.

Perhaps she was a _little_ nervous.

She found the town without difficulty. The motel took a bit of searching, but she located it on the outskirts of town, where small houses and trailers scattered out into the desert. The motel was identical to hundreds she'd driven past, which, she thought with a spy's keen eye, was no doubt what had made it appeal to Farrell: small, shabby, and single-story, an L-shaped building with rows of plain, numbered doors embracing a parking lot. There was one car in the lot, and Mrs. Pollifax cruised past it several times in Jane's long green station wagon before deciding that no one seemed to be about, and a beat-up Volkswagen was unlikely to be driven by any sort of self-respecting gangster (or Farrell, for that matter). It was not parked in front of the door to #7, but three doors down instead. The windows of the unit in front of it were dark. There was, however, a dim light in the window of the one that she assumed to be Farrell's.

Thinking spy-ish thoughts, she pulled the station wagon onto a narrow dirt track behind the motel, parking it beside some trash cans. After locking the doors, she peeked along the front of the building one final time, and walked swiftly to room #7, where she knocked.

She heard something tip over inside the room. Then there was only silence. Mrs. Pollifax knocked again. "Hello?" she called softly.

Quiet rattling indicated the removal of the chain, and the door was yanked open; a hand closed on her arm before she had time to react. "What are you -- no, I don't even want to know. I truly don't." The voice was Farrell's, and deeply irritated, as he hauled her inside and shut the door firmly behind her.

"Is that any way to -- oh my," she trailed off weakly as he re-locked the door and put the chain back on. In the dim light -- the room was lit only by a single bedside lamp -- she saw that he was stripped to the waist. He had a gun in one hand and a damp towel stained with dark swatches thrown over his shoulder. The dark swatches continued down his ribs and back.

"You've been shot," she said blankly, staring as she began to recognize the darkness as blood, turned inky in the dim light of the room. " _Again?"_

The glare he had turned on her couldn't hold; he broke into a smile that looked somewhat wan. "My thoughts exactly, although it isn't a bullet wound, it's a stab wound this time. You may as well sit down, if you're here -- and for the love of God, Duchess, why _are_ you here? And how on Earth?"

There were two narrow beds in the room. One was neatly made, and the other littered with towels and bandage wrappings. A plastic pitcher bearing the motel's logo lay on its side, with a dark pool of water soaking into the carpet. That must have been what had fallen when she'd startled him. Farrell started to bend down to pick it up, then pulled himself up short with a wince. Feeling somewhat responsible, Mrs. Pollifax picked it up and went into the bathroom to fill it with fresh water.

"For the love of Carstairs is more like it," she said over her shoulder. "He got a distress call from you and called me."

"Called you to do _what?"_ He sat down on the bed, wincing, and laid the gun on the pillow, within easy reach. "And why were you here in the first place?"

"I was at my daughter Jane's for Christmas, and as for what I'm doing, I'm gathering information on your current situation," she told him, testing the water with her fingers to be sure it was warm, but not too hot, before filling the pitcher. "Apparently you weren't very forthcoming with information."

"Hard to check in properly when there's no phone in the room, in case you hadn't noticed," Farrell said wearily, reaching around behind his back to press the towel over his ribs. "I was lucky I got here before the motel office closed -- otherwise I suppose I'd have had to break in, as this is hardly a metropolis. I had to borrow the lobby phone to check in. It wasn't as if I could give a full situation assessment."

"Yes, well, you seem to have left just enough information to give them the impression you were in trouble, which appears to be accurate, but not what sort of trouble you were in." She came back with the full pitcher and a clean washcloth.

"Then something got garbled in transmission," he said, sounding irritable, as she knelt on the bed behind him. "I let them know clearly that I didn't need backup and the situation could wait until morning."

"Then I can only assume that Carstairs called me because he knows _you."_ She placed her hands on the towel and Farrell reluctantly relinquished it. She peeled it back and touched the wet cloth to the bloody mess of his side; Farrell hissed in pain. "Are you quite sure --" She'd thought she'd become inured to the sight of blood in Albania, particularly Farrell's blood, but there was really quite a lot of it. "I have a car. I could drive you to the hospital."

"No," he said firmly. "No hospitals. I know it looks bad, but none of the wounds are deep."

"Wounds, plural?" But by now she'd washed away enough of the blood to see that he was right, on both counts. There were at least five or six shallow stab wounds. It appeared that the knife had glanced off his ribs. "Making friends as usual," she said lightly, dabbing at the injuries. "I don't suppose you'd care to tell me what's going on? I thought the CIA didn't operate on American soil."

"It's not CIA, not precisely -- well, it's complicated. Probably better the less you know. The important thing is, the other guy got the worst of it, and I don't think I've been followed. I just need to get the bleeding stopped and everything patched up, and then in the morning I'll skip a couple towns over and talk to an actual doctor -- I just don't want to do it _here,_ for the sake of my cover."

"Your cover, which is?"

"Not something you need to know about, but also not the sort of guy who'd go to a doctor for something like this."

"Oh, Farrell," she sighed, pressing the bloody towel back to the seeping wounds. "What _are_ you mixed up in?"

"Nothing that won't keep 'til morning, I swear."

"It had better. I understand Carstairs has another agent on his way down from Albuquerque. How far is that?"

"The better part of the night, I'd figure. And that's if he can find somewhere to get gas and doesn't end up stranded along the road. On a Christmas night, I wouldn't lay odds on that kind of miracle." He sighed and rested his hands in his lap while she continued to prod at his back. "It really will keep. I had no idea Carstairs would call out the cavalry."

"I expect after nearly losing us _and_ a lot of valuable intelligence in Albania, Carstairs is taking no chances," she pointed out, privately flattered to be included in the definition of "cavalry," if only by default. "Have you anything to stitch this up with? Or iodine?"

"Just these." He held up one of the bandages strewn on the bed, and she realized he'd ripped up a pillowcase.

"Oh, Farrell, this won't do at all. You need proper first-aid supplies."

"Didn't have them in Albania," he pointed out with a ghost of a smile.

"Yes, and you almost died," she said tartly. "No, there's no help for it. I must take you back to Jane's; I haven't a choice."

The smile dropped off his face. _"What?"_

"You said there's no immediate danger and you weren't followed, correct?"

"Well, no ... as far as I know ... listen, Duchess, I didn't want you mixed up in this to begin with. The last thing I want is to get you deeper in, along with your family."

"And the last thing _I_ want is to leave you here with no proper supplies and not so much as an aspirin," she told him. "I'll be very careful and you can help me elude any chance of pursuit. Unless you'd rather be taken to the hospital?"

His obstinate look was answer enough.

"Very well, that's settled," she said. "My car's around back -- or Jane's car, rather. Where is your shirt? You can't go out like that."

Wordlessly, Farrell held up what she'd taken for a bloody rag.

"Oh." She supposed that cotton was not going to hold up well to multiple stab wounds. "That won't do. Here, you can wear my coat."

As soon as she took it off, he gave her an incredulous look. "Duchess, what are you _wearing?"_

"A holiday sweater," she said defensively. There were reindeer on it. "It's traditional." She held out the coat. "Come on, put it on."

"First of all, that isn't going to fit me, and second, I'll get blood all over it."

"The latter doesn't matter to me. I needed a new one anyway. As for the first, you're right, but perhaps we could drape it about your shoulders to make you a trifle less conspicuous."

Farrell kept staring at her until she impatiently draped it about his shoulders. He sighed and tucked an arm underneath to press the towel against the stab wounds -- still sluggishly bleeding. With the other, he attempted to hold it shut where it gaped over his chest. "Yes," he said, looking down at himself -- the bare chest not at all covered by what was plainly a ladies' checked coat. A mocking smile curved the corner of his mouth. "I'm feeling less conspicuous already."

Ignoring him, she cleaned up the room quickly, bundling everything inside a towel, and, carrying it, let them both out into the night. There was a locked box outside the closed motel office for returning keys; Mrs. Pollifax had taken the precaution of swiping Farrell's room key off the table, which she dropped in.

"Hey," Farrell protested. "I paid twelve bucks for that room."

"From what I saw of that room, you were robbed."

"We're going to need to find some way to get a message to Carstairs' man from Albuquerque," Farrell pointed out as they made their way around the corner of the building. He had a hand in the pocket of her coat where he'd put his gun; with the other hand holding the towel, the coat looked on the verge of sliding off him.

"Oh, I didn't think of that. We can call Carstairs from a pay phone. He'll need to know what's happened to you anyway."

Despite his bravado, he was moving very slowly, and she suspected it wasn't just trying to keep the coat from falling off. After making his careful way into the passenger seat, he leaned forward and rested one arm on the dashboard with a low groan, trying to keep his back from contacting the seat.

"We'll be there soon," she reassured him, leaning over him to push the door lock down. "Jane doesn't live far away -- oh, but you were going to show me some tricks for, what's the term, shaking off a tail."

He gave a tired laugh. "You will never stop amazing me, Duchess. Turn left up here."

They made their way back to the city by a roundabout route, and stopped at a different gas station, where Farrell called Carstairs. Even from where she was standing, propping open the door of the phone booth, Mrs. Pollifax could hear Carstairs saying, "She did _what?"_

Farrell smirked, and said, "If you didn't see that one coming, then you've turned into a poor judge of character since I saw you last. No, she's fine, I'm fine --" He ignored Mrs. Pollifax's pointed stare at this last bit, especially as he was still hunched under her coat, looking like a refugee. "She said you have a man coming down from New Mexico. I could catch a ride with the chap, if you don't object ..."

Mrs. Pollifax reached for the phone. Farrell relinquished it with a look of annoyance. "He'll be staying with me at my daughter's house," she said. "Your other agent can pick him up in the morning. I assume you have the address, as you seem to have my number as well."

"You know, everything about Johnny being at his current location is classified --" Carstairs began.

"I understand that. I _do_ know how to keep secrets, you know," she said pointedly. "He just needs a place to stay the night. As far as my daughter is concerned, he'll be nothing but an old friend of mine."

Farrell took the phone back. "As you can see, I haven't much choice." He sounded both amused and resigned.

There was a bit more back-and-forth, working out the details of the pickup in the morning. Meanwhile, Mrs. Pollifax spotted a trash bin beside the closed gas pumps. She stuffed the bundle of bloody cloths inside, as she couldn't very well leave it in the backseat of Jane's car.

"What _are_ you going to tell your -- daughter, was it?" Farrell asked as they got back in the car.

"Jane, yes. I'll think of something." Though she didn't have the slightest clue _what,_ she'd also grown reasonably confident in her ability to improvise on the fly. If she could bluff Albanian secret police who intended to kill her, surely she could bluff Jane. "Oh, and also, her husband's name is Conrad. The children are Dora and Robbie. You should probably know that."

"Conrad, Dora, and Robbie," he repeated dutifully.

In a stroke of luck, the house was dark when she pulled into the driveway, except for the Christmas lights sparkling under the eaves and a single light in the living room. In her absence it appeared the family had gone to bed -- or most of it had. A hand moved, twitching the curtain back and then letting it fall.

"Jane's still up," Mrs. Pollifax sighed. "We wouldn't be so lucky ..." She leaned over the back of her seat. "And not a stray jacket or abandoned grocery bag to be found. I shouldn't fault her for being such a tidy housekeeper, but there's no help for it. You're stuck with my coat for the moment. Once we're inside, we can borrow something from Jane's husband. I think his things should fit you."

"Conrad," Farrell contributed. "See, I was listening."

Mrs. Pollifax gave him a hand out of the car and led the way to the door, attempting (rather hopelessly given their size difference) to shield him from view.

" _Mother,_ " Jane wailed, nearly colliding with her in the doorway. "I was about to call the police! Where _did_ you go? You were lost, weren't you?"

"Only a little, dear, and very fortuitously too, since I ran into a ... an old friend."

"A what?" Jane asked, and then Farrell moved forward into the light, and she recoiled with a shocked gasp.

He did, Mrs. Pollifax had to admit, look rather disreputable. Their attempts at cleaning up the blood had gotten the worst of it off, but there was no help for the fact that he was hunched forward and wrapped in a borrowed women's coat several sizes too small. On top of that, Farrell wasn't the most reputable-looking person to begin with. She had nearly forgotten (she was so used to him by now) what her first reaction to Farrell had been, and therefore what Jane's was likely to be also. Farrell was a dangerous-looking man, and also a very good-looking man, two attributes which combined to give him a piratical air -- the dashing, romantic sort of pirate one encountered in movies.

"As you can see," Mrs. Pollifax said quickly, having decided that charging forward was the only way they were going to make it through this (the "better to beg forgiveness than ask permission" principle, which had worked well for her so far), "he needs to borrow one of Conrad's shirts."

"But," Jane managed, gaping, "but, Mother -- what -- _why_ \--"

"It's quite simple really," Mrs. Pollifax went on, suspecting that the most important thing was not to allow the conversation to lapse long enough for words like "police" to be mentioned. "You see there was -- a, er --"

"Motel fire," Farrell inserted smoothly. "Sprinklers and smoke damage got all my luggage. Shirt's a total loss too, as you can see. And wasn't I glad Du -- er, your mother had stopped by to chat, knowing I was in town for the holiday. Salesman, you know -- I travel around."

"His aunt Doris is a very dear friend of mine in the Garden Club," Mrs. Pollifax picked up the thread when she sensed him beginning to run out of inspiration. "Jane dear, could you run upstairs and fetch one of Conrad's shirts, please? I'm so very sorry to trouble you, but you know where everything is. I truly hate to impose." Farrell was starting to shiver, standing in the doorway; she could feel it through her hand resting on his arm. He'd held up quite well, but he was going to give out eventually. Also, she needed to get him out of sight before Jane noticed the blood. Jane took after her father in a good many ways, but she was neither stupid nor unobservant.

"Yes -- Mother, I --" With another look at Farrell, Jane threw her hands in the air and hurried up the stairs.

"And Conrad's spare pajamas?" Mrs. Pollifax called after her hopefully, then turned to Farrell. "The bathroom is over here," she whispered, hustling him through the living room, past the glitter of the decorated tree. Farrell looked around with increasing nervousness as he took in the whole scene: the bulging stockings hanging from the railing at the bottom of the stairs (there was no fireplace), the lopsided gingerbread house on the table, the neat arrangement of holiday cards on the knickknack shelves and the garlands draped over the doorframes, the plate of cookies for Santa with a note scribbled in crayon in a childish hand.

She'd been imprisoned with him in Albania and she wasn't sure she'd seen him look quite so desperately trapped. "This is a terrible idea," he whispered back urgently, before she shut the bathroom door in his face because Jane was coming back down the stairs.

Mrs. Pollifax spun from the bathroom to the hall closet, and met Jane in the living room with an armful of linens. "He's in the bathroom," she explained, snaking a hand out from under a pile of sheets to take the shirt and pajamas.

Jane attempted to hang on, and they ended up in a brief tug-of-war. "Really, Mother, I can't believe you invited a _stranger_ \--"

"Not a stranger at all," Mrs. Pollifax said. "Doris is a very dear friend; we've known each other for many years." She hoped devoutly that she'd given the same name as the first time. 

"Yes, but Mother --" Jane dropped her voice. "There's nowhere for him to sleep, for one thing. Robbie's already in bed, we can't wake him up and move him --"

"The couch will be perfectly fine. I know where everything is." She tried as subtly as possible to hustle Jane back up the stairs. "I'll make it up for him. You needn't go to any trouble. I'm so sorry to cause worry for you -- and on Christmas Eve too!"

There was a rustle and thump from the bathroom, followed by a muffled curse. Jane glanced in that direction dubiously. "Yes, but Mother -- he doesn't look --"

"Very old family," Mrs. Pollifax said firmly. "Very respectable."

"You said he was a salesman!" Jane whispered. "That doesn't sound respectable!"

"Bible salesman," Mrs. Pollifax replied. "Do go to bed, dear. I'll take care of everything down here."

Jane set foot on the stairs, only to turn around almost immediately. "The children will be up before dawn. Your friend won't get a wink of sleep."

Oh dear, she'd forgotten about that. "Neither will the rest of the household," Mrs. Pollifax reminded her. "He won't mind a bit. Very good with children, two of his own." She wondered, as a tiny worm of doubt began to creep in now that she'd unwisely started thinking about tomorrow, how Farrell was with small children, or if he'd ever interacted with one at all. 

She made a mental note to remind Farrell that he needed to make up names for the two children she'd manufactured for him.

But Jane was finally upstairs, so Mrs. Pollifax dumped her armful of sheets on the couch and hurried to the bathroom, where she tapped on the door. "Farrell?" she called quietly. "Are you decent?"

"Oh, you care about that now?" was his testy reply, so she took that in the affirmative and let herself in. The contents of the first-aid kit were strewn about in the bathtub, and he'd managed half a sloppy bandaging job while twisted around in front of the mirror. The gun was lying conspicuously on the edge of the sink.

"This is harder than it looks," he said between his teeth, wincing as he twisted his head over his shoulder with one arm doubled up behind him. "Why'd it have to be the _back?"_

"Here, let me." With one hand resting on his back to stop him from doing anything else, Mrs. Pollifax looked around for the needle and thread that she knew Jane kept with the kit for doctoring childhood injuries. "Some of these need stitching. They'll scar otherwise."

"Wouldn't be the first time," was Farrell's dismissive reply. However, the fight went out of him and he sat on the closed lid of the toilet, legs turned around to the side, while she sat on the edge of the bathtub and finished the washing job she'd started at the motel before neatly stitching up the edges of the slashes.

Farrell was right, they weren't deep, but they were still very aggressive. Mrs. Pollifax tried not to think about the anger that drove one person to thrust a knife into the flesh of another human being, not just once but multiple times. She doubted if she would be able to do it beyond the first time, and only if in desperate peril.

"Oh, I should tell you," she said to get her mind off her gloomy thoughts. "I told Jane you have two children, by way of reassuring her about her own. You had best come up with names and ages for them, because she _will_ ask. Er, how are you with children?"

"Oh, they're fine, a lot like dogs really," Farrell said dismissively, and while Mrs. Pollifax was still sputtering and gathering her objections because children were not _at all_ like dogs, he said, "Any ideas you have for names would be appreciated though. Naming children -- not my strong suit! I don't even usually title my paintings. Am I supposed to have a wife too?"

"With children in the picture, I assume a wife is around somewhere."

"Great. I need a name for her too. Zenobia? I courted a girl named Zenobia once."

"I really think it had best be something like Mary or Betty, if you don't want questions asked."

"Betty Farrell," he mused. "I don't know, she sounds stultifying."

"Yes, that's precisely the point. For the children, er ..." She didn't want to admit it, but she'd never been that enthusiastic about baby's names herself, not like the girls she knew who wrote out lists on the edge of their school papers to amuse themselves. "How about Alice and Tommy?"

"Johnny," he said. "Little Johnny Farrell."

"Oh don't tell me you're one of those men who names his children after himself. Farrell, _really."_

"Hypothetical children," he protested. "Alice and Johnny -- Alice is the eldest, of course, and the sensible one. Johnny is forever getting into trouble ..."

"I'm glad to see you're getting into the spirit of things." She secured the last of the bandages in place. "There, you're done. Take these." She pressed two aspirin into his hand. "Have you eaten?"

"I'd really rather sleep," he admitted. "Duchess, I am truly sorry to crash your holiday. I'll be gone at first light."

"You will not," Mrs. Pollifax retorted as she repacked the first-aid kit. "What are you going to do, walk down the street and hitchhike a ride from Carstairs' agent? I should warn you, however, that the children will be bouncing out of their rooms before any of the adults are up. Christmas morning, you know. I haven't a clue how they'll react to finding a stranger on the couch."

"They'll probably be too distracted by the enormous pile of presents to even notice me."

"Speaking of the children ..." She picked up his gun carefully from the edge of the sink. "This had best go somewhere they won't find it. I'll put it on a top shelf in the closet, if you can bear to be without it for a little while."

"I haven't got a choice, do I? Besides, you're right."

As they went back into the living room, he stole a cookie off the Santa plate, paying no heed to Mrs. Pollifax's scandalized look.

"Farrell, really."

"What? The kids'll never notice. If they do it'll just give them more reason to believe they got a visit from the big red guy. You know," he added, nibbling on the cookie, "this is pretty good. Your daughter make this?"

"No, I did. And you're incorrigible," she added, but couldn't help smiling.

He ate two more while she made up the bed on the couch. "You know, Duchess," he said, very seriously. "I promise you no danger will follow me back to your family's home. You have my word on it."

"I know," she said. "I wouldn't have brought you if I thought it might." She pulled an afghan across the bed and patted it. "There, all ready for you. Good night; sleep well." She brushed her hand across his shoulder as she passed him, heading for Dora's room.

She didn't think she could fall asleep, but underestimated how much the night had tired her out. The next thing she knew, the gray light of dawn was filtering through the pink curtains of Dora's room, and there were excited children's voices coming from the living room. She distinctly heard Farrell's voice as well.

Christmas morning. Mrs. Pollifax smiled to herself. The holiday sweater with the reindeer now had a few discreet spots of blood, so she donned the one with the elves, along with her holiday hat, and ventured out into the living room to see how Farrell was getting along with the children.

She found him sitting on the floor with the children, in his borrowed pajamas, helping them put together a train set in front of the tree. When he looked up at her entrance, he took one look at her head and burst out laughing. "I thought the sweater was something last night, but, Duchess ... _that_ is in a class by itself."

"That's Grandma's Christmas hat," Dora contributed. "It's the _best_ hat."

"It's an embarrassment, Mother," was Jane's contribution from the kitchen, glancing out with a batter-covered spoon gripped in one hand. "She wore it to church one year, can you believe?"

The hat had an entire winter scene with snowmen and sledders around the brim. She'd seen in a shop window and couldn't _not_ buy it. In truth she thought it might be a bit garish, ever so slightly, but the children did love it. Anyway, she wasn't inclined to take fashion advice from a woman in a flowered bathrobe.

Farrell climbed to his feet, leaning surreptitiously on the back of the couch to do so. "Would you like some help in the kitchen, Mrs. Kempf?"

Jane looked very startled. Conrad was not a man inclined to lend a hand for any sort of domestic task. "I ... suppose?"

As Farrell went to assist her in the kitchen, Mrs. Pollifax heard her say, "Such a pity about your Bibles, though."

Farrell looked politely blank. Mrs. Pollifax mouthed, "Bible salesman," to him.

"Oh, _those_ Bibles ... yes, but they're covered by insurance, you see. Everything we sell is fully insured."

"How fascinating," Jane said. "So tell me about your children. Mother says you have two of them?"

By the time the expected knock at the door came in early afternoon, Farrell had (to no surprise of Mrs. Pollifax's) thoroughly charmed them -- well, all of them except Conrad, but that was really too much to expect. He was polite, full of interesting anecdotes (most of them, Mrs. Pollifax was fairly sure, either completely made up, or hastily reworked for a family audience), and he even managed to keep the swearing to a minimum. The children clearly found him fascinating.

When the knock finally came, Mrs. Pollifax got up to answer it, and found a young man with red hair and freckles standing on the doorstep looking awkward. He gave her hat a single wild stare. "I'm going to hope you're Mrs. Pollifax?" he said desperately.

"I am. Please come in."

"Agent Webster; call me Paul. Oh, thank _God._ I've been lost in this subdivision for two hours. Every house looks the same, every street looks the same, and every last one of 'em has Christmas lights out front. Not that I can figure why they bother in this desert -- sorry, ma'am, no offense --"

"None taken. We were just serving cocoa; would you like a cup?"

He gave her a quizzical look. "You understand I'm here to collect Farrell, right?"

"That doesn't mean you can't stay for cocoa. And I believe the goose will be out of the oven soon. Have you eaten? It's really a shame, having to pull you away from your Christmas like this. I would have thought better of Carstairs," she added with disapproval.

Jane came up just then to see what was going on. "If he's selling something, Mother, _please_ don't buy any. We don't want it, whatever it is," she informed Agent Webster.

"He's a friend of Mr. Farrell," Mrs. Pollifax told her. "Come to pick him up, but I was just asking if he wanted to sit down for a bit. He's driven such a long way."

"Mother, you can't simply --"

"Please bring another cup of cocoa, Jane, we shouldn't keep a guest standing in the hall."

And so they all ended up in the living room, with Agent Webster trading mutually baffled how-is-this-happening-to-us looks with Farrell. Mrs. Pollifax went to help Jane with the gravy.

"Mother, you cannot simply keep inviting people to Christmas dinner," Jane gritted out as she checked on the goose while Mrs. Pollifax stirred the gravy. "It's fine to do this kind of thing at your own house, one mustn't judge, but you should at least _ask."_

She did have a point, and Mrs. Pollifax caught her daughter in a spontaneous hug, making Jane squeak. "You've been a great sport about it, dear, and I'm very sorry to impose on you like this. It's only that they haven't anywhere to go."

"Your friend Mr. Farrell has a wife and children waiting for him," Jane pointed out. "Who he hasn't even tried to call, that I've noticed."

Oops. The trouble with cover stories ... "But it's not as if he can drive to ..." She tried to remember where Farrell had claimed he lived. "-- Des Moines," she recalled triumphantly. "Not in time to join them for _their_ Christmas dinner, at any rate."

Jane turned to look into the living room with a speculative expression, where Dora was showing Agent Webster her new doll. "Where _is_ Mr. Farrell's car, anyway? If he's a traveling salesman, he surely has one."

"Damaged in the motel fire," Mrs. Pollifax said promptly. "Very terrible thing. A ladder truck dropped a ladder on it. He'll be picking it up later on, but of course no one was at the garage because of the holiday. So Mr. Webster drove all the way from Albuquerque to offer him a place to stay until his car is repaired; isn't that kind of him?"

"About the fire --" Jane began, but just then the timer for the goose went _ding._

Christmas dinner was excellent, but increasingly uncomfortable for Mrs. Pollifax since she could almost see Jane's suspicions growing by the moment. Farrell was obviously aware of it, too; once the pie had gone around, he made his goodbyes as soon as it was possible to do so without utterly flouting good manners.

Mrs. Pollifax went discreetly into the bedroom and came back with Farrell's gun tucked into the bottom of a paper bag under half a leftover pie.

"Are you going to come back?" Dora asked, hugging his leg and looking up at him with adoration.

"If I'm in the area. Can't promise anything; you know us salesman are always on the move." He patted her on the head and carefully detached her with a glance at her mother, whose manner was decidedly tending towards frosty.

Mrs. Pollifax followed them out onto the porch. Agent Webster's car, a late-model sedan, was parked on the street. "You'll get that wound looked at," she told Farrell in a firm undertone, handing him the bag. "They can go septic very easily, you know. Here, a little something for the road."

He peeked inside and grinned at her. "Always prepared, Duchess. You have a lovely family, you know. Thank you for letting me share your Christmas."

"I would have invited you if I thought you'd come," she told him, giving him a careful hug and a kiss on the cheek. "Perhaps next year I will."

"Perhaps next year you'll have to come down to Mexico and get a tan."

"I just may do that," she said, relishing the idea of the reaction from both her children if she told them she was spending Christmas in Mexico. And she hadn't seen his art gallery yet ... Fondly, suffused with warm feeling, she waved to both men as the car pulled away.

"Mother, I do _not_ think that man is telling you the entire truth about himself," Jane whispered as soon as she was back inside.

"Nonsense," Mrs. Pollifax brushed off her worries. "I told you, I've known Doris for years."

"Yes, but there's something not quite trustworthy about him, don't you think?"

"I certainly do _not_ think so," she replied without a trace of doubt. "There is no one I'd trust more. And Jane, you can't disagree he's quite good-looking."

"How is that relevant? I certainly wouldn't notice any such thing," Jane shot back, blushing a brilliant sunset red.

***

The next time she saw Carstairs, Mrs. Pollifax told him sternly, "It really was very rude of you to make that poor Agent Webster miss his family's Christmas dinner, when Farrell and I had the situation well in hand. You must give me his address so I can send him a belated Christmas card and a thank-you note."

"Mrs. Pollifax," Carstairs said patiently, "Paul Webster is a CIA field agent; we cannot simply hand out their addresses."

Of course, how silly of her. She still found it a difficult adjustment at times. "Then I'll send the card in care of the agency, and you'll be sure he gets it?"

"I can do that. The card and tin of cookies you sent me were very much appreciated, by the way -- and Bishop said he likes the scarf you knit for him very much," Carstairs added with a bemused expression, as if some part of him was still struggling to overcome the certainty that CIA agents did not knit each other wool scarves.

"It was my pleasure. And .... I don't suppose you can tell me what Farrell was doing in Arizona?" she asked hopefully.

"Not in the slightest. But your help was invaluable; thank you very much. Even if you didn't follow orders at all."

"I certainly did," she said, indignant. "I looked for danger, saw none, and went to help. Had you been there, you couldn't have faulted me in any way."

"I'll be the judge of that, shall I? In any event, it seems that Farrell was fortunate you were there." He gave her a speculative look. "Your family has no idea of the truth, correct?"

"Oh, none at all," she reassured him, though last she heard, Jane was combing through the papers for traces of a motel fire. Perhaps she did have a bit more of the Emily about her than the Virgil, after all.


End file.
